The Culled by Simon Spurrier

Author:Simon Spurrier [Spurrier, Simon]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Abaddon
Published: 2006-01-02T05:00:00+00:00

I'd stopped twice on the way down from the dinosaur exhibits. The few fractured shards of rationality still spinning inside my head had decided I was inside a museum, and the one thing museums always have is an enormous floor plan in every corner.

That was stop 'Number One.'

In a display of the Woodlands Indians, in the far western wing of the third floor (within easy sprinting distance of a stairwell which - I was reliably assured - led down to the side exit on West 77th street), I crouched and bled.

This was the result of stop Number Two.

Thick rivulets down my spine, oozing under the hem of my trousers and down the backs of my legs. Didn't matter. I was in control.

Taking my time. Calm. Breathing well.

The sensible savage.

I think somehow, somewhere inside, I felt indignant, too. Like: how dare these fuckers chase me? How dare they? How dare they outnumber me?

Me!

It was a useful emotion.

This was home, in a way. Worming through the darkened corridors of an embassy in some exotic place, waiting for the moment to strike. Lurking, stalking, closing in.

Or letting them come to me.

This time the arseholes came mob-handed. They'd closed on the tracker beacon with admirable speed, slinking along open corridor corners to avoid ambushes, sidestep-by-sidestep. I could hear their progress with practiced acuity: three together on point then another (a softer tread, probably the woman) taking rearguard.

Only four. The other one was staked-out in the lobby, crushed and sliced-up by the glass cabinet. Twenty minutes into this nasty little game, and one fucker down already.

It would be dishonest to pretend I wasn't enjoying myself.

I could hear them beyond the last corner of the twisting hall.

"Strong signal," one grunted, voice terse. "Directly ahead. Other end of the room."

An arm blurred in the shadows.

Something small flying, bouncing, rolling, then—

Light and smoke and noise, and three heavy figures springing-out to let rip into the phosphor distraction. I couldn't even see the weapons; only feel the drumming of the air, the epileptic nightmare of endless automatic muzzleflare, and the quiet smugness on the bright faces of the attackers.

They were standing so close I could almost have touched them and, for the record, they were shooting in completely the wrong direction.

I waited until they'd walked further into the room. The one with the tracker grunted in satisfaction, claiming the marker was stationary and they must have hit me. They took up swaggering stances before the darkened 'Iroquois' display - now reduced to shattered plastic and crumbled wax - and took a few more potshots into the rubble, just to be sure.

Behind them, I ducked out from beneath the cosy chickenwire-supported wigwam of the Ojibwa tribe (never heard of them) and ghosted back along the empty corridor.

Divide and conquer.

The woman stood with her back to me, pressed into a pool of darkness, nervous at the cacophony her comrades were throwing-up from round the corner. She had a mini-Uzi in each hand - compact little toys with folded stocks and extra-long

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